


Playing the Game

by goseaward



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Football (Soccer), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-28
Updated: 2003-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goseaward/pseuds/goseaward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short scenes, which might have taken place in OotP. (If only JKR was a slasher...) Dean teaches Harry to play football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing the Game

**Author's Note:**

> The comment about orange footballs is actually courtesy of the commentator on an "Own Goals and Gaffes" tape my dad has. Can't remember his name, though. West Ham did, in fact, beat the Spurs 1-0 on Feb. 12, 1996. (I've been doing waaaay too much research for this fic.) 
> 
> This is fluff. Pure, unmitigated fluff. Really. I mean, it's so sweet it's practically hurting my teeth. Just so you know.

"Um, Harry?" 

Harry turned from stacking pillows to find Dean standing behind him. "Yes?" 

"I really...I wanted to apologise for Seamus. He listens to his mom, right? And she listens to the Daily Prophet. Don't hold it against him?" 

Turning back to the pillows, Harry said, "He can think whatever he wants. It's not my business." 

From across the room, Hermione called, "You don't have to stack those! The Room will take care of it." Harry ignored her. 

"Don't be mad at him. Please." Harry glanced back over his shoulder. "He's my friend, and so are you. I don't like you being mad at each other." 

Harry shrugged. "He'll believe me when he believes me." 

"All right." Dean paused, and Harry thought the conversation was finished. "I was wondering..." 

After another pause, Harry said, "Yes?" 

"Um. This is really nice of you, to teach us like this, and I thought maybe...would you like to learn football?" 

"Well, I'm fairly busy..." 

"It can't hurt your Quidditch..." 

"Oh." Harry thought about it. "Okay." 

"Good." Dean smiled suddenly, unexpectedly. "Talk to you about it later, then." 

"All right." 

Dean smiled again and left the Room of Requirement. Harry blinked and returned to stack the pillows, thinking about Cho and how she'd been nervous around him. 

  

"This is the ball..." Dean kicked it towards Harry. 

Harry picked the ball up; it was white, with red lines connecting the hexagonal panels. "I thought they were black and white." 

"They were. Now, they make all sorts of fancy colours. And put it down—you're not allowed to use your hands." 

Harry dropped the ball and toed it towards Dean. 

"That's the first thing—never use your toes. You can break them, or deform them. Lots of Premier League players end up needing toe surgery. Use the inside of your foot, like this." He turned his foot sideways, so his toe was pointing almost straight out to his side, and gently kicked the ball in Harry's direction. "Your turn." 

Turning his foot, Harry scuffed the ball in Dean's general direction. Dean cracked a smile. "Well, not bad...you didn't play when you were younger, right?" 

"No." 

"Not bad, then. Here, try again." 

Harry managed to get the ball within two feet of Dean this time. Dean easily sidestepped and did something with his foot to make the ball roll softly to where he'd been standing. "That's passing," he said. "Passing you do between two people, like this. Dribbling is what you do when you want to run with the ball...you turn your foot the other way, like this," he directed his left toe to point more or less towards his right instep, "and push the ball with the outside edge of your foot. Okay? Like this." He kicked the ball in a few short steps over to where Harry was standing. "Try it." 

Harry dribbled at a more or less forty-five degree angle to where he was intending to go. 

"Well...close. Again." 

This time, Harry made less of an angle, though he ended up a few feet away from Dean. 

"Okay, better," Dean said. "Pass it again..." 

Harry did. 

"All right..." Dean passed it back "...so now dribble again..." 

They continued for a few more minutes. 

"You really love this, don't you?" Harry asked. 

"Always played with the kids on my street when I was younger. They're good memories. I was going to try and play for the school team...but that didn't quite work out." 

"No, I suppose not." 

"And Quidditch is more fun to watch." Dean trapped the ball again and met Harry's eyes with a grin. "But now we get to the fun part of football." 

"Which is?" 

"Keep away!" Dean said, kicking the ball and sprinting after it. "Come on, Harry! Try to get the ball away from me!" 

Harry went sprinting after Dean, who was even faster dribbling the football than simple running. 

After they'd finished and showered, Dean asked, "Did you have fun!" 

Emphatically, Harry said, "Yes!" 

"Want to try again sometime, then?" 

"Of course." 

"Good. Next week, then?" 

  

After four weeks, Harry finally managed to steal the ball away from Dean. Dean immediately came close to knocking him over with a shoulder before getting the ball right back. 

"Hey!" said Harry. 

"Perfectly legal," Dean said. "I didn't actually push you or trip you or grab your kit or anything." 

"So I can just run into you any time I want?" 

"As long as you're going for the ball." 

"Sounds good," Harry said, before launching himself against Dean's side and taking the ball back. 

"Oh, you want to play dirty, eh?" 

Harry only grinned. 

That time, the showers took twice as long as usual, since they were covered in mud by the end. 

  

A few weeks later, Dean had to drag Harry out to the open space they used as a pitch. There was a deep chill in the air, but Dean seemed determined. Harry's mind wasn't really on the game, though, and he missed Dean on every pass for about five minutes. 

"You're not paying attention," Dean said. 

"Sorry," Harry said, surly. 

"No, you're not," Dean said. "You're feeling sorry for yourself because you can't play Quidditch any more." 

"Well, how would _you_ feel if you were told you couldn't do this any more? Ever?" 

"I'd figure out a way to play anyway. Somewhat like the D.A..." 

"Well, that's different." 

"Different how?" 

"Well, for one thing, you don't need a bloody broom!" 

"That's true," Dean said. "But you can still watch, and you can still think. Do you honestly think Dumbledore'll let her stay another year?" 

"Her bloody decree will still be in effect," Harry said. He wished very much he still had the ball, which was currently at rest under Dean's left foot; scuffing it in Dean's direction would illustrate his point rather nicely. 

"They're not going to stop you from playing once she's gone. You're Harry bloody Potter." 

Harry frowned. "You don't swear." 

"Well, you've been doing it so much I thought I might as well join in." 

"Oh." 

"So, keep playing football with me?" Dean's smile was playful now, daring. "It'll keep you in shape..." 

"Maybe," Harry said resentfully. 

"Then catch me!" Dean ran off quickly, and Harry sprinted to keep up. He felt justified when Dean ended up in the grass, and pretended his elbow had nothing to do with it. 

  

"Orange?" Harry asked incredulously as they walked out of the school. 

"So we can see it in the snow," Dean explained. 

"When did it snow?!?" 

"This afternoon, didn't you see?" 

"Detention with Umbridge..." 

"Again?" 

"Yeah." 

Dean set off dribbling a quick circle around Harry; Harry admired the way his legs moved, even hampered by their thick winter clothing. "You really ought to stop provoking her." His feet did a complicated dance with the ball, belying his stern words. 

"What do you want me to do, stop breathing?" 

"Hey, we might actually get some House points that way." Harry's eyebrows started climbing up his face; Dean laughed. "But I wouldn't have anyone to practise with, so I suppose I can let you live." 

"Thanks," Harry said. 

"My pleasure." Doing something complicated with his feet again, Dean managed to twist the ball in Harry's direction. Harry stopped it—trapped, he reminded himself—and sent it rolling back. 

"I heard you had a bit of a thing with Cho before the hols," Dean said. 

Harry blushed to the tips of his ears. 

Laughing, Dean said, "I think that's a yes." His feet had stopped their intricate dance and were merely nudging the ball around. "Come on, I want all the details." 

"There wasn't much to it, really." 

"Is that all you're going to give me, then? _There wasn't much to it_? Really, Harry." 

"It's true." 

"Well, then. I'll expect more details after the next encounter." 

Harry merely glared at him, and made sure to aim upwards on his next kick. 

  

As he dribbled out onto the "pitch" with the white and red ball, Harry had a sudden thought. 

"Dean?" 

"Yeah?" Dean puffed, bouncing up and down on his toes. 

"Where do you keep the orange ball in the summer?" 

"In my trunk, obviously," Dean said. 

Harry waited. 

"Oh, you were trying to be funny!" 

"Thanks...." 

"No. That's good!" 

"Just get on with it," Harry said. So much for feeling better today. 

"All right. Well, today, I'm going to teach you to tackle!" 

"Tackle?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "I know what a tackle is." 

"Not that kind, idiot. It's how you take the ball off people." 

"Oh. That wouldn't've helped at keep away at all, oh no." 

"Well, if we had more people, we would've been playing actual positions by now, and it wouldn't be as important." 

"Sure, blame Quidditch." 

"I'm not!" Dean said, offended, till he noticed Harry was joking. "Well. You just get up close to the bloke, right, and when he stops to make a move, you just scoop the ball away. Or if it's right up against his foot, you hit as hard as you can with your foot on the other side, and either it'll go spinning away and you can get it, or it'll knock him over and you get the ball anyway." 

"Sounds brutal." 

"Oh, it is. Want to try?" 

They got very dirty again that day, especially since the spring rains had made the ground soft and muddy. Harry very carefully did not notice the way the water slid down the beautiful musculature of Dean's back when they showered. 

  

"What made _you_ so happy?" Harry asked. 

"We beat the Spurs! One-nil! A shutout! On their home pitch!" Dean was practically dancing, the ball moving with him. 

"Shutout?" Harry asked. "Spurs? We?" 

"West Ham! Obviously!" Practically a bloody musical, Harry thought; now Dean was nearly _singing_. "We beat the Spurs! One-zed! They got _no goals!_ This is so great!" He grabbed Harry and danced him around the grass, chanting, "We won, we won, we won..." 

Harry finally extricated himself. "Well...I'm happy for you?" 

"Thanks!" Dean grinned blindingly, then suddenly let it drop. "Oh...sorry to hear about Cho." 

"Don't worry about it," Harry said. Strangely enough, he wasn't worrying all that much either. It seemed to matter less than he'd thought, at least at the moment, with the grass and the sky and the ball and Dean. 

  

"Sorry about the D.A.," Dean said, weeks later. 

"It was going to happen. We knew it was." 

"But Dumbledore—" 

"I don't want to talk about him," Harry said quickly. 

"All right." Dean looked thoughtful as they kicked the ball around. "Just—let me know if you want to talk, okay?" 

"Okay," Harry said. He didn't think it was likely to happen. 

  

May dawned bright and warm. Their little corner of grass was relatively secluded, though, so they could practise in peace. 

"Why did you ask me to do this, anyway?" Harry asked. 

"Because football is a metaphor for life," Dean intoned seriously. 

"Spare me," Harry said, grabbing his heart. 

"Good, because I don't know how it's a metaphor. That just sounded good." Dean was doing something impressive he called juggling; the ball hadn't touched the ground in probably a minute. Harry watched, enthralled. "More because you're the only other Muggle-born Gryffindor bloke. Justin Fitch-Fletchley probably would've played with me, but I don't know, it's more fun when it's someone from your House, right?" 

Harry thought of Ron and nodded. 

"Besides," he added, "this way I always win." 

"Hey!" 

"It's true. Oh, bugger," Dean said as the ball dropped to the ground. "Anyway—here, you try—" he kicked the ball over, "why did you agree?" 

"Don't know," Harry said, mostly concentrating on keeping the ball in the air for more than one kick. "Sounded like fun?" 

"Right," Dean said. "You just felt sorry for me." 

"No...maybe it was those big, puppy-dog eyes." 

"Oh really?" He batted his eyelashes at Harry. 

"Mmm." 

"Those big, puppy-dog eyes are going to steal the ball from you," Dean said, and did just that. 

  

"Come on, tackle me!" Dean taunted, pulling the ball away at the last second. Again. 

Harry pushed his foot forward, only to be thwarted again. "I would if you'd let me!" he finally exploded. 

"You can do it, Harry!" 

"Bugger off," Harry muttered, and kicked at the ball rather violently. It knocked against, then through, Dean's foot as he dribbled towards Harry; he fell forward, into Harry, knocking him slightly over. 

The sun was behind Dean's head, or his body, or something, and the light was bright around the dark blot of his hair. Dean's eyes were smiling down at him, lips curving in something that might have been— 

"Told you," he said, with a grin of surprisingly white teeth, from this angle anyway. He pushed himself up, then offered a hand to Harry. 

Harry glared. 

"You're cute when you do that." It sounded nervous, hesitant, despite the bravado of the words. It sounded like the way Dean had sounded when he'd first asked Harry to practice with him. He leaned forward and kissed Harry delicately on the lips. 

Harry pulled back immediately. "Dean—what—" 

"Oh," Dean said, looking stricken. "Oh—I'm sorry—" He was blushing everywhere Harry could see. "I—I don't know—sorry." 

After a pause, Harry said the obligatory, "It's all right." 

"Right. Well. Perhaps...perhaps long passes." 

"All right." 

  

It wasn't till Harry was working the shampoo through his hair that he realized showering with Dean might not be the best idea. He still couldn't believe that Dean had kissed him. Dean. A bloke. Dean who shared a room with him. 

Harry turned around to rinse the shampoo out, deliberately not noticing the water sluicing over Dean's back and legs. And in between. 

Wait, he thought. Wait. 

If I didn't like it, why am I looking at him like this? 

I didn't like it. Did I? 

He realized suddenly that he didn't know. 

  

The next practise was awkward, tense, and Dean stopped them early. Harry was hypersensitive as they walked into the showers. Will he look at me? Will I look at him? Will it matter? Do I care? 

He did look, again while rinsing his hair. And he had to admit to himself that he liked the sight. 

The results, after all, were rather...noticeable. 

Dean had to have some pretty incredible courage, he realized. To admit something like this...to actually kiss him...it took guts. And Harry hadn't had them. Perhaps it was time to remedy that. 

The hardest thing he'd ever done, he thought, was to take that first step across the shower room. But after that it was much easier, and he was hovering behind Dean's shoulder before he knew it. 

"Dean?" he asked. 

Dean whipped around. "What?" he asked, sounding truly puzzled. 

Harry bounced up on the tips of his toes and kissed him, quickly, on the lips. 

Dean had closed his eyes when he saw Harry's face approaching. He opened them again, looked down at Harry with dark eyes, then bent down and kissed him again. 

Closing his eyes as well, Harry reached up and twined his fingers in the thick hair at the base of Dean's skull, finding that "wet" was not always a bad description of a kiss. His other hand finally came to rest at Dean's waist, and Dean's arms were wrapped around him, bringing them body-to-body. Harry pulled back reluctantly, looked up, saw Dean's eyes nervous again. 

"You don't need to be nervous," he said. 

"Aren't you?" Dean asked. 

"Not any more," Harry said. He took Dean's left hand with his right, brought them between their bodies, and kissed him again. 

  

All too soon, it was the end of term, and Harry and Dean suspended their last practise/snog session for revision. 

"Next week," Dean said. "After the O.W.L.s. One more time." 

"Okay." 

"Good." Dean smiled suddenly, unexpectedly. "Talk to you about it later, then." 

"All right." 

The next week, though, Harry was in no shape to do anything at all. Dean was there, a warm comfortable presence when Ron and Hermione were still in the hospital wing, but they didn't talk much. By unspoken agreement, they did not discuss their relationship when the rest of their House was around. After Ron and Hermione got out of the hospital wing, they rarely saw each other, and they made only cursory goodbyes before boarding the Hogwarts Express. 

It came as a surprise to Harry when he found a small package in his pants pocket while riding home in the Dursleys' car. He wasn't sure if it had been there the whole trip or not, but he certainly hadn't noticed it till then. He opened the tightly-folded piece of paper and tucked the marble in his palm. 

>   
> __
> 
> Hey Harry— 
> 
> Sorry we didn't get to talk more. I'll write over the summer if you send me an owl; just let me know, in case owl post will make your family angry. Or we could try Muggle post. 
> 
> Thought you might like to keep up your football. The ball's enclosed; it should expand about twenty minutes after you get off the train. 
> 
>                                                    —Dean 

Well, Harry thought, maybe this summer wouldn't be as boring as the last one. 

He checked his watch: almost exactly twenty minutes since disembarking. On cue, the marble in Harry's hand started getting bigger. He laughed. It was the orange ball.


End file.
